


seven minutes in heaven

by neverbirds



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh!
Genre: Angst, M/M, kind of not smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-22
Updated: 2012-11-22
Packaged: 2017-11-19 06:12:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/570075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neverbirds/pseuds/neverbirds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It's been two and a half minutes and you've not even tried to undress me yet," he can hear Marik grin, can feel him fiddling with a button. He can taste Marik pulling back. "I'll show you mine if you show me yours." YBxM. 500 word ficlet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	seven minutes in heaven

**Author's Note:**

> slightly old fic crossposted from my fanfiction.net account :)

He counts down the seconds until they're touching again. He bruises with every kiss; skin so pale it burns irritably with every feather light fingertip. Bakura doesn't mind. It's not his anyway, and it's not like he paid a deposit.

It still feels like his body, though. It takes a minute, that this is being warm and this is being held and this is being.

Marik matches his kiss with a ferocity that only comes to those who wait. Bakura knows it well enough; knows the fiery tendrils of frustration start in your head and seep through your bones until you're burning alive (although, really, Bakura knew nothing of Heat. When Marik's nails scrape down Ryou's back and he feels it, he does). Bakura only ever associated fire with loss, and he can't quite remember why, only he remembers perfectly but just pretends he doesn't. Now it's Marik and colour and spice. It's shared anger and tongues rolling into each other. Fire is Marik's eyes sliding close when Bakura bites his neck.

"Didn't know you cared so much," Marik mutters when Bakura's hand slides up his back and touches each scar with his palm.

"Been alone for a while," Bakura breathes. "I guess you'll do," Bakura lies.

"It's been two and a half minutes and you've not even tried to undress me yet," he can hear Marik grin, can feel him fiddling with a button. He can taste Marik pulling back. "I'll show you mine if you show me yours."

"It's not really mine," Bakura snaps, pushing forward and meeting Marik with his mouth. He kisses downwards, lips pressing into the soft tendons below the neck, over hard bone, teeth meeting his heartbeat.

"You got me there," Marik's voice catches as Bakura moves his hand slightly. "But the only way you'll get me for free is if you're quick enough to take me, thief king."

Bakura laughs. Marik's hands push lower, and Bakura doesn't make any noise after that.

They don't move together quite right; their edges don't quite work, but that's ok. He never really was a perfectionist. Bakura is hot, filled with heat he's never known before. Fire is feeling. Fire is this moment, with a boy who smells like home, whose teeth glisten with Bakura's spit in the light and clutches his hipbones until his fingers leave dents.

He counts down the seconds until it's over. Until he's water, liquid and unstable, unable to transfer heat. Marik kisses him, once, on the cheek, and rolls over to light a cigarette. He watches the flame dance by his lips and wants to push it forward and burn his mouth shut. Instead he turns away, aware that it's over, knows from the corners of Marik's mouth, knows from the tension in the muscles of Marik's thigh through his palm, and with his other hand touches his cold, dead Ring.


End file.
